A/N: A part of the 1k commisions! @wunderschon-lieblich suggested some kind of continuation of Fulke x Zealot!Reader So ofc I decided to be absolutely deranged. MINORS DNI | CW: BLOOD & GORE
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If you could describe Fulke as anything, she was salt ground into your wounds. Fiery and overwhelming, pain great enough to make you breathless and sweet as the blood on your tongue.
Fulke is a plea from your lips. She's your punishment. A cursed savior.
She is salt cleansing you from the inside, tearing flesh from bone. She invades you like a virus, infecting every tissue with the cruelty of her hand. She was never gentle, nor was she kind, but regardless, it was good.
Sever my body into pieces. Mold me into what you desire. Again and again, as many times as it takes. Break the bone and drain the blood.
Make me belong to you, my sire.
You loved her anger, her cruelty, and her pain. Perhaps it was because you were her Zealot, but all of Fulke tasted divine, even when her kisses were soaked in blood.
It's metallic and hot against your lips, her movements carnal in nature. There is force before there is love. A claim that has been made. Yet you're certain pain has never been so gentle. Fulke is poisonous for the mind. She leads you astray.
You crave her regardless.
You're doubled over. Jolts of pain skyrocketing through your body. You're coughing from the sharp kick she gave to your sternum. You don't know whether you're laughing or crying.
It may be both. As is her pleasure and pain.
"Such a lovely expression." Her voice is enough to instill fear into your heart. That dry sneer mixed with excitement. She's enjoying this. Your torture was her pleasure, and her pleasure was your doctrine.
"Sire…" You flinch as Fulke squats. Her large, calloused hand reaches out to caress your cheek. Even crouched, she's a looming presence, and you shiver, not daring to look up.
"Sire I can't…breathe…!"
Suddenly, Fulke grabs a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back. The sight is holy. Her vibrant blue.
Bright like cracks of lightning, dark as a thunderous sky. Her eyes are terrifyingly beautiful.
My Sire.
She kisses you with no remorse. No care for the pain she's inflicted on you. Spit and blood mix together, exchanging in a savage display of power. You keel into her touch, eager to taste more of her lips. Already your chest is healing, but you want the pain to last. You need her to remind you. You need her to sear it into your brain. That you are hers, and hers alone.
Of course, Fulke does not disappoint.
Your back is pressed against the floor, wrists held together above your head. Fulke casts a shadow over you, her smile like a bad omen on her lips.
"Now…where shall I mark you today?" Fulke snorts, a wry smile on her face, "Then again, is there even a place where my blade hasn't already met your skin?"
Your healing powers denied any wound Fulke inflicted on you to last, but that didn't stop the paladin. No–rather, she merely saw it as a reason to cut you up repeatedly, night after night, to brand the memory of her ownership into your mind.
It was twisted. An action spurred on by pure animalistic greed. Yet you loved every second of it.
"...Hm...here." Her large, rough hand caresses your lower stomach. Her eyes are burning with lust and hunger, and her smile causes shivers to run up your spin.
"For women, this place is sacred. So many have come to the church and asked me to bless their wombs, all believing that their false god destined them to give birth. Such pitiful lives. Bound by a fate merely given by man…"
Fulke speaks slowly, taking her knife out to lay the cool metal flat against your skin. She smiles when you flinch, pleased by your quivering.
"But I shall bind you to me, my little lamb. Your fate, your flesh, your desires…" Fulke's eyes gleam. The blade sinks down into your skin. Pain erupts over your body, and pleasure blooms in the depths of your heart.
"Beautiful…" Fulke mutters, watching your flesh split apart by the force of her blade. Ribbons of blood run past your waist, pooling onto the floor. Tears fill your eyes, blurring the vision of your sire above you. The pain is excruciating, enough to make your teeth grind and voice come out in a poorly suppressed cry. However, you're also unable to mask your smile.
It was good. To see Fulke giddy over your submission to her, to see her indulge in your body. Each wound was a vow, blood the conduit of your love. You wanted Fulke to partake in it, lips trembling in a weak plea. Your sire didn't need to decipher the words, she knew what you needed.
"Sire…!" You moan as her tongue delves into your wounds, causing sparks of pain and pleasure to rock through your body. Was it possible to fuck a person's wound? The slit of your injuries tingles as Fulke savagely indulges herself, lips smeared with your blood. It feels good in a hedonist way, as if you both were sinking into the depths of depravity.
"You're so sweet, love." You let out a cry when Fulke bites into one of your many gashes, forcing out another ribbon of blood. Your heat throbs at the action, looking down to meet Fulke's gaze.
Could love be so merciless? You aren't sure if she wants to cherish you, or eat you alive. Either is fine with you.
"F-Fulke, I can't anymore, I need–ah!" Without warning, Fulke thrusts two fingers deep into your sodden cunt, smiling in amusement.
"I know, love. I know." Her calm demeanor contrasts the strength of her movements, ruthless as she has her way with you. Fulke watches you melt intently as she fucks you, as though you're a specimen for her to study. Blue eyes wildly take in every twitch of your body and the slow healing of your wounds. They memorize which places make you shudder, and the paladin isn't hesitant to hit them over and over.
"Fulke! I-I'm–" Before your final wound can fully heal, Fulke takes her free hand to thrust her fingers into the gash, moving in tandem with her fingers, already pleasuring your heat. You can't help but shudder with a moan, feeling the pain send you over the edge.
You come with a cry, seeing stars you aren't sure are from blood loss or ecstasy. But considering what had just happened?
A/N: Look it's really hard to describe this fic, but think Havi!Eivor but it's you who has a secret entity inside you that Fulke sets free via torture lol.
Word Count: 3k. AO3 Link
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The ___ does not tire. It does not sleep. Flowers wither, seasons change, the stars die out.
Still, it remains.
A searing pain. It's hot on your thigh. Your mouth is open in a blood curdling scream. No–it twists with a sneer, goading her to do more? What's going on? It hurts so much. It feels like nothing. Does she really think this is enough to awaken me? Am I…awake?
The air is toxic with burning flesh. It heals. It melts. It molds. You go back under.
The ___ was born of the Sire's desire.
"Remarkable." Drool mixed with crimson drips from your mouth. Your vision is blurry, and your head feels like it was smashed in with a war hammer. There's a sharp pain in your chest as you breathe, no doubt a broken rib. The black spots scattering across your vision clears, and you're met with bright, intrigued blue eyes.
So blue you can see the harrowing frost within them.
Fulke. You would have never believed it if anyone told you this was the woman's true nature. She spoke of God in a charismatic, mesmerizing way, with her glorious grandeur and convictive gaze. Her teachings were sound, and her company was like sweet honey on your lips. You became her disciple because she believed in you–or so she said–certain that you were destined for greatness.
If only you'd known what such “greatness” entailed. Perhaps you would have been able to escape her grasp.
Or at least, the hot, bright red knife cutting into your skin.
"Tell me what you are." You shake your head. You hiss sob. You frantically plead as she brings the tip of the knife back up again. You answered this question before, and you've said every answer you can possibly think of…but still, she isn’t satisfied.
"I-I don’t know what you want–but I'll be whatever you wish! Please, p-please Fulke I–!" Slow and steady, she lets the hot metal pierce, melting through your skin. It divides tissue and muscle with ease. Your cries pierce the walls, but there's no one to hear them other than the woman beside you. Fulke watches you with wild eyes, slicing down your thigh without shifting her focus.
"Let it clear your mind. Let it set you free." You don’t understand. You never understood Fulke anyway. Not in her puzzling inquiries, or her roundabout speech. Not in the way she'd thread her fingers through your hair, leaning down to brush her lips against your ear with a playful whisper.
"Tell me what you are!" Now, her voice is a frightening roar.
"I s-swear Fulke, I do not know–!" Your lurch forward. You snarl. Your eyes burn with something ghastly. There's a pounding in your head, a ringing in your ears. Your thigh is slick with blood and fiery with pain. It doesn't get any better when Fulke digs her own fingers into the wound and claws, demanding you embrace the "truth." Blood oozes out in waves, sickening squelches filling your ears as she plunges in and out, thick fingers torturing your flesh. It hurts! It hurts, it hurts it–
Where is my Sire? You black out.
The ___ snaps your neck toward Fulke, and the ___watches the paladin's eyes widen with a spark of joy. A shiver rocks through your body, but the ___ pays no mind. You may be afraid, but the ___ is not. How can a being that cannot die fear death?
Instead, the ___ leans forward to bare your teeth in Fulke's face, a mixture of blood and spit hitting her cheek.
"The ___ serves none but the Sire. None." Before Fulke can answer, the ___ goes back under.
You snap awake. Tears well up in your eyes as your vision comes back. Not again. With the pain being too much for you to bear, you keep fading in and out of consciousness. But was Fulke always this close to you?
"Huh? Uh–" With a sudden tsk from Fulke, your skin is torn apart. Her rough jerk with the knife makes thick red blood spill out onto the floor. Your voice cracks with an agonizing yell, and you beg for the pain to subside.
"F-Fulke please! I truly do not know what you want–" Your consciousness fades again, and instead of sniffling, you growl so sharply Fulke jumps. It's an ominous and animalistic rumble, and you furiously jerk at your chains, kicking your legs as if a knife isn’t embedded there.
"It is the sword. It is the spear. The hand of the Sire. Always, the ____ remains. I remain."
"Yes! Yes that's it, you–you who is trapped in this measly prison of flesh! You who have persisted, who have remained…and I do the honor of awakening you." Your eyebrows furrow with confusion. What was Fulke talking about? It seems you can hardly stay awake during the torture to know. You mumble Fulke’s name, but she doesn’t respond, fervently muttering to herself as she unceremoniously jerks the knife out of your leg.
“Ugh!” You wince, panting as you feel blood ooze from the wound. You need to close it somehow, before you lose too much blood and–
The wound…what happened to the wound?
“Now then.” You flinch, abruptly looking up from the wonder of your healed leg to see Fulke with an odd bottle in her hand. She opens it, and the smell makes you gag–certain whatever is inside is toxic.
“Let’s see how fast you can heal from acid, shall we?”
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On the seventh day, you feel it shatter. The fragile consciousness of the mortal girl born into this body.
So it begins. You think as you open your eyes, feeling your severed fingers slowly growing back. The world is different from last time you walked upon it. It’s aged. You can tell by the structure you find yourself awakened in, regardless of the blood and guts splattered about. Surely, it’s been quite a few centuries since you were last here.
“Y/N?” You're called a name you do not know. You assume it was yours before you became you and "you" shattered. As was the nature of your existence. You stole and did not return. Not unless your sire commanded you to.
My Sire. You look up, staring into bright, intriguing blue eyes. So blue you can see heaven in them.
Fulke. The one who awakened you stands tentatively. You bow your head in a greeting.
“Sire.”
“So it’s true.” Fulke speaks, fingers wet with that girl’s your blood, moving to tilt your face up. She moves it back and forth, examining you with sharp precision. “You are not Isu, but something different?”
“I am the Zealot.” Fulke frowns, nose scrunching up in confusion. You find it adorable.
“Where do you come from?” You sigh, listening to the shifting octaves of her voice. It’s a perfect melody, and you let yourself keel into her touch. She does not discourage you.
“I have no origin. I was not, now I am.” You speak as if that explained everything, and Fulke sighs, mumbling to herself about going over her scrolls.
“Then…this Zealot you claim to be. What do you do?” You smile, happy she asked more about you. You shift eagerly in your chair, ignoring the clack of chains as you sit up straighter.
“I am my Sire’s will. Her fury and her desire.” Fulke blinks, seeming to just realize your use of the title.
“Sire…am I–did awakening you make me–”
“You are the sole purpose of my existence. The object of my worship.” You close your eyes, humming softly, “For you, I would burn this land down to ashes. I’d destroy every last remnant of their false god. I would make them understand the wrath of the Forgotten One, and the sin of ostracizing you.” You open your eyes, fixing Fulke with a dark, promising stare.
“Should you order me to, that is.”
They’re cracks of blue lightning, those fervent, wild eyes. They shine like priceless jewels, glowing with ambition. Fulke slowly nods at first, but then her mouth twists into a sinister grin–and with it she throws her head back in a full on laugh, fingers brushing through her hair. How hauntingly beautiful. Your chest flutters at the sight, full of butterflies at her obvious joy. You watch as she strides over to you, grabbing a fistful of your hair to jerk your head back.
“How ironic that I, a heretic, is graced by the Isu with a zealot?” Her grip is wonderfully merciless, and the heat of her body is addicting. She’s pleasantly intimidating as she sneers, giving you her first command of many.
“Tell me again. What am I called?” You let out a breath, loving how she speaks down to you. With this proximity your lips brush against the metal of her armor and against the blood of your past self. It makes you shiver with delight, and you speak a prayer to her flesh and bone.
“You are my Sire. My god…and I, the Zealot who worships at your feet.”
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Fulke uses you well. You like that about her. Then again, you like everything about Fulke.
“You’re back?” You stand at the doorway of her room, body in one hand and a relic in the other. Mud, blood, and some substances you can’t identify cover your body from head to toe. Of course, you do not mind. You nod, attempting to take a step inside before Fulke raises her eyebrow.
“Little lamb,” you flush at the nickname, having earned it after being so obedient, “what did I tell you before?” Oh, she minds.
You let go of the body with a thump, waving your hand immediately. The dirt and grim dissolve into thin air, and you resume dragging a now clean body into her room.
“Forgive me,” you sheepishly say, coming before Fulke to kneel and offer the relic, “at the sight of you, I was filled with longing and had forgotten your commands.”
Fulke’s eyes sparkle, taking the relic and eyeing it with awe. It was much easier to send you out in search of relics than her without raising suspicion of her heresy. Plus, you were capable of finding more relics than she could do alone. However, Fulke had never anticipated you’d be this resourceful.
“Is that so?” She says absentmindedly, still studying the relic. With her free hand, she brushes calloused fingers through your hair, as if she were petting a dog. You close your eyes in bliss, melting against her knee as you practically purr. This task had taken you some days to complete, and you feel as if your insides had been rotting without her.
“Have I fulfilled your will?” You murmur, ready to do more if she was unsatisfied. Fulke lets out a soft laugh, fingers tickling the back of your neck. You shudder with delight, looking up to meet her warm gaze.
“You have. As always my lamb–you have done what no other has done for me.” Ah. Her happiness is electric, making you giggle with joy of your own. After following your Sire for some time, you learned that Fulke was utterly alone. Sure, she was a part of the Order of the Ancients, and even King Alfrred respected her–but in her desire to uncover the truth of this world?
She was without allies, and that made her lonely despite being so revered. My lovely Sire, isolated from the rest of the world.
“And I shall do it again,” You vow, moving to hold the hand in your hair and press your lips against her knuckles. The flesh is worn, it's rough–carrying the proof of her toiling work, the proof of her resolve. Savoring her warmth, you sigh. You would do whatever it took to protect Fulke's dreams, and make them come to life. Such was your duty as the Zealot.
“Wherever you lead me my Sire, I will follow.”
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You're unsure when it started.
Perhaps it's after you're bested by this “Eivor.” The two fools–Basim and Sigurd–had wanted one of Fulke's relics, but not for Fulke’s own goals, and so she had sent you to kill them. It was the first time a mission failed, and Eivor left you beheaded in the woods.
You hate beheadings. It takes forever for your head to reattach itself again.
When Fulke finds you hours later, head just about to fully connect back onto your neck, she hits the ground with a strangled gasp.
Her eyes.
Those mesmerizing blue eyes. They were delicate back then. So wide and glistening with what you'd recently learned were tears. However, Fulke did not let her teardrops fall.
Instead, she silently gathered you up into her arms and carried you back home.
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After that Fulke is different. Somehow.
Before, things were clearly defined as master and servant. Fulke sent you out on a task, and you returned upon its completion. She rewarded you with the one thing you desired: to bask in her presence, and you were content with this routine.
Such was the way of the Zealot. You exist for her goals, and you yearn for her happiness. Nothing more, nothing less…
“My Sire, forgive me but…what are you doing?” At least, it used to be.
The situation is unfamiliar. Pressed against the wall, your heart pounds against the bars of your ribcage. Fulke stands–no, corners you–looming with an unpredictable edge.
You're dwarfed by her, and you nervously swallow. The Zealot does not feel nervous. But then, what is this hammering in your chest? You’ve never processed Fulke's full height like this, feeling awfully tiny under the weight of her stare. This vessel…it's too small.
Or perhaps Fulke was simply too tall, too wide, and too…well, big. Even her alluring voice seems too much for you, and you shiver as Fulke mutters.
“Studying you. Am I not allowed?” Like this? But why?
Fulke confuses you. Ever since she saw your neck half sliced open, she changed. Despite knowing how quickly you heal, she insisted you stay in bed for days. She completely abandoned kidnapping Sigurd, which she had told you she'd plan to do after killing Eivor. She stayed by your bedside until she deemed you able to walk again, and after that?
She never stopped touching you.
It isn't in the way you know. Without completing a mission, Fulke never rewards you. But she does now, and it's all the time.
In the mornings, her lips brush the crown of your head while her fingers intertwine with your own. She whispers good morning little lamb with a slightly rough voice, and you forget how to breathe. Throughout the day, her hands regularly gravitate to your hips, lingering over your thighs. But why? Fulke's interactions leave you dizzy, and this case isn't any different, hot as you force out an answer.
"Of course Sire. If–if it helps with your work, um." You tentatively speak, and Fulke encouragingly hums, fingers tracing the curve of your neck, her touch makes you jerk in surprise. "Ah! Uh, please feel free to…study me…?" Fulke smiles softly with a tinge of mischief, and you swallow.
"It won't help. Not in the slightest, actually." You blink, eyebrows furrowing.
Huh?
"Sire, forgive me for asking, but then why–"
"Fulke." You sharply inhale as she pushes flush against you, making your neck crane back just to meet her gaze. "I want you to call me Fulke."
You stand like a fish out of water, finding the idea absurd. The Zealot doesn't call their Sire by their name. However, Fulke has no problem convincing you otherwise.
The towering woman simply raises an eyebrow, and her voice is a low, commanding drawl.
"Say it." You don't know whether your shiver is from fear or awe.
"...Fulke," her hum of approval makes your heart skip a beat. Her large hands brush over your cheek, and you swear she smirks when you quiver in response.
"Would you believe me if I say I've had a change of heart? I thought I needed you to carry out my plans, to use you as a pawn…but when I saw you like that…" Fulke's deep eyes are like crashing waves, threatening to pull you under. It’s a stare that tingles your entire body. This is something I do not know. What was this feeling? You're hot, breaths growing heavy as Fulke murmurs.
"It hit me. Just how much you mean to me. Y/N…" her hands cup your cheeks, easily covering both sides of your head. Fulke’s long fingers are like sparks on your skin, and you worry you'll burn her with how hot you are.
"I want to kiss you." What?
“I–what–uh–” Your insides are a flustered mess. How could such a simple sentence be so damning? Your cheeks feel like they’ll melt off your face, mouth dry as you stutter. Fulke lets out a breathless chuckle, taking in your reaction.
"…Now even more so. Will you let me, little lamb? Or should I continue to gaze until you do?" I don’t understand. You simply lived to fulfill another's wish. There was nothing to want from you, let alone anything to love. Love was something only a person could have…
…Yet here Fulke was, asking you to love her.
"I, no–the Zealot–it lives to–" A finger presses against your lips, making your words die in your throat. Fulke stares into your eyes as though searching through your soul. She speaks with such conviction you can't help but tremble.
"I'm not asking the Zealot, I'm asking you. What do you want? What do you desire from me?"
Have I ever been asked that before?
You can hardly speak. The words feel hard to say without guidance. Without a role. To say what you wanted, when you didn’t know if you were a person?
"I…" The Zealot was born of the Sire's desire. I am the sword. I am the spear. I am the…I am…I…
…What am I?
"I–I want, I need…" You heave, hands gripping Fulke's wrists as you try to understand what this burning is. It makes you restless, panicked even. How could you desire what the Sire did not? You did not want anything but Fulke to be happy, so what was this yearning? What was this pain?
What do I need?
"That's it love, say what you want. You're allowed to have desires and chase after them. You're more than a tool or pawn… You're a person."
I am? You gap up at Fulke. You had never heard such words before. You didn't think they'd ever apply to you. Yet warmth fills your chest, and you don't realize you're crying till she wipes your tears away. Fulke smiles, gentle as she whispers.
"It's okay. Tell me, little lamb. I will do everything you ask. Everything." Her words are the final nail in the coffin, and the words rush out in a frenzy.
"I want you to pet me. Tell m-me I've been good." You're bawling, clinging onto Fulke as she hugs you tight. She hums in encouragement, lips brushing against your temple.
"You have been good. So good to me love. My precious baby." Her immediate compliance makes you melt, leaning into her body. You look up, and whatever expression on your face makes Fulke groan, eyes dark with lust.
"What else? Tell me." She knows the answer. You both do. Yet it's necessary to speak aloud. To have it come into existence.
"Kiss me. I want you Fulke. Make me yours, hold me–" Her lips capture your own before you can finish the last word. It's a possessive dance, and you grow weak under the will of her devilish tongue.
Fulke hardly relents. She takes and takes from you–your strength, your burning core, the very air you breathed–as though fervent to claim the entirety of your being. The kiss lingers when she pulls away, haunting your lips with a hunger for more. The paladin seems to be plagued with the same ghost, heaving as she gazes down at you.
"You've done well. Now…let me take care of the rest."
quick idea I had where you are one of Fulkes soldier that you have an intimate relationship with. Eivor kidnaps you in hopes that this will make fulke give her brother back. Sorry I unfortunately am a fulke enjoyer
when does the reason become the blame ? When did she fall so deep that her hand crafted soldier became her absolute undoing ?
weren’t you just her lackey ? sure you had spent countless nights exploring each other's bodies, mostly her exploring yours but even so, weren't you just someone to abide to all her whims and blindly follow her faith ? Then when ? How did she find herself in this position ?
It only took a second. a moment of weakness where Eivor, seething with anger, looked for her soft spot. Something to threaten her with and in her vulnerability her eyes darted over to you in concern. That was enough.
Eivor leaped and wrapped an arm around your shoulders pulling them back, pinning them against your back and her axe was flat against your chest the tip pressed against your neck. You stopped breathing a thick clot forming in your throat from the supressed oxygen and eivors voice felt heavy right by your ears
“My brother in return for your woman” she threatened, still having reason within her to make a fair offer. What Fulke was building brick by brick to hide , Eivor had figured out in seconds.
You saw Fulke, looking collected, tall and cold as ice her blue eyes having a heated battle for dominance with Eivors. The ice blue darkened, a storm was brewing tainting the skies of her mind. You were familiar with that look
“She is but one of my soldiers” Fulke tried the words, flattening them, trying to unravel the situation unceremoniously but her pinky finger twitched and her breathing pattern grew deeper. she was at Eivors mercy at the moment
“I could replace her by dinner. Can you say the same for your brother ?” she teased with a sharp, thin smile but Eivor didn’t waver. she lowered her axe and pushed you towards a man who grabbed you with equal force. -Basim- as you recalled.
“She isn’t just a soldier fulke. That much I could tell. Bring me my brother tomorrow and I’ll let her go. Dont make me change the deal by saying an arm for an arm as well”
Fulke turned her back waving goodbye and grabbed a horse. The rest of her soldiers followed her lead heading back. She prayed that you understood this was an act. that she hadn’t abandoned you. In all honesty though she was lost and she felt cold sweat prickle her skin and dampen the fabric of her back
this may very well be the last day she would see you. Could she possibly find Eivors hideout within 12 hours, find you and then bring you back to her chambers where you could stay there safely and out of sight.
She had worked all her life for this moment. She couldn’t just give sigurd back. Sigurds prophecy was her life's purpose. She grew gloomy and grim. “Hej!” she called out and whipped the reins harder, urging the horses to pick up their pace.
what was the solution
what was the answer
what
what….
Had her God abandoned her or did she perhaps abandon him while pursuing you?
